Rite of Passage: Episode 3 of the Rec Room Series
by Lady Angel
Summary: Hobbie's tale. Third in The Rec Room series


Title: Rite of Passage  
  
Author: Angel  
  
E-mail: valarltd@hotmail.com  
  
URL: http://www.geocities.com/lady_aethelynde  
  
Rating: PG, for alcohol use  
  
Summary: Hobbie's tale  
  
Type:humor  
  
Series: Rec Room, part 3  
  
Disclaimer: yadda, yadda, yadda, Lucasfilm, yadda, yadda  
  
Acknowledgements: The marvelous Irish joke I pirated for this.  
It really does sound a lot better when I tell it on my husband.  
  
Warning: Underage (by American standards) alcohol use. If this offends you,  
leave now.  
  
Note: unbeta'd.  
  
Feedback: I crave it. It makes the bunnies breed.  
  
  
  
***  
Rite of Passage  
2000 Angelia Sparrow  
***  
  
  
  
"Not too bad tonight, Hobbie," Luke commented, sipping the concoction  
the pilot was dispensing from the tiny synth.  
  
Dak made a face and handed the cup back. Wedge picked it up.  
  
"No sense letting good, or in this case pourable, booze go  
to waste, Dak." He stiff-armed it and gasped. "What'd you   
put in that stuff, Hobbie?"  
  
Han sampled it. "Potent, but drinkable. Then again--"  
  
"C'mon, Solo. We all know Corellians drink anything that  
flows downhill." Hobbie settled back, and crossed his   
boots on the table. "In fact, did I ever tell you I come from   
a long line of brewers and distillers?"  
  
"That's right, it is your turn tonight, isn't it?" said  
Jansen quietly.  
  
In my clan, when a boy turns 14, he is required to spend the year  
preparing for his test of manhood. On my fourteenth birthday,   
my father, my older brothers and my uncle, who is the head of our  
clan, came to me. They explained with great solemnity,  
that if I wanted tro be worthy to wear the family name, I  
must, over the next year perfect a distillation to call my very own.  
  
How I worked oevr that year! I perfected my distilling technique and began  
testing recipes. Nothing was unique. I tried using three kinds  
of fruit, picked only at the full moon. My second cousin  
did it ten years before. I tried using berries, picked by hand and  
stomped by green-eyed virgins. My great-grandfather four times removed  
had done it. Finally, at wits end, I started brewing with the odd, three  
leaved groundcover from my back yard. I found the little white  
chevons on the leaves made it bitter, and altered the recipe.  
  
Finally, my fifteenth birthday arrived. I stood before  
the entire clan, and presented my uncle with the bottle.  
  
He poured it out. Now, Rogues, what came out of that bottle was green.  
Not the pale green of my aunt's mead made with frooberry honey,  
but bright screaming grass green, a couple shades lighter than  
your average Rodian.  
  
My uncle held it to the light, sipped it, and kept his face stern  
for a couple moments. Then he smiled!  
  
"Today, you are a man!" he announced. "Scribe your recipe for  
the archives, and brew enough for the Festival of Pauf." I was surrounded   
by cheering relatives. My uncle let everyone taste, and they all  
approved.  
  
Later that evening, we got a call from my aunt. My uncle had  
sampled all I had left, and requested I bring more  
for further judging. She seemed most distressed about the  
fact he wanted to market it at the concession booth of his new zoo.  
  
"Zoo?" I asked, confused.  
  
"He is seeing so many animals as a result of your drink,  
he's put a sign in the front yard 'Follen's Zoo.' Come over,  
and bring enough that he can drink himself past this."  
  
So, what could I do? I went over to my uncle's with a couple bottles  
of the brew. Sure enough, there stood the sign "Follen's Zoo,  
admission two credits."   
  
"Uncle?"  
  
"Ah, Hobbie! Come in, come in. You should see the banthas!  
And Flitdancers from Iugin. And furballs from Kimanan."  
  
"Easy, uncle. Have a drink, and you can show them to me."  
  
Anyway, we had a drink. And then another. And sometime later that  
evening, as my aunt tells it, I staggered into the house  
and announced the problem was solved.  
  
"Sall right, auntie. He shold me da banthash!"  
  
And here is the scar where she hit me with the waffle iron."  
Hobbie unzipped his flight suit and showed the checkered imprint on  
his shoulder.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
